Memorial Day weekend and it has yet to feel like summer is right around the corner. That may have something to do will the demoralizing cold and wet April, but you know how it goes: April Showers bring May Flowers. But just so you're aware, May Flowers don't bring pilgrims. Mayflowers do, and that happened in November. So explain that to me, fool.
Nonsensical rhymes aside, I'm really excited for the upcoming summer. E will be coming to Chicago for my birthday weekend (Treat Yo' Self 2013) and in July it'll be off to Missouri for my grandparent's 60th wedding anniversary. And, of course, there's always Chicago in the summer to look forward to. I swear that seeing this city in the summer almost makes the winters worth it...almost.
Dressing on a theme? You know I can't resist it. Someone re-pinned my Memorial Weekend outfit post from last year and it reminded me of my neglected blog and subsequent neglected Polyvore. Seeing as my brain decided to be awake at 5:30am this morning (what the heck brain?) I thought I'd put my time to good use and paint my nails while creating a set. Could I have maybe cleaned my room, done laundry, or taken out the trash? Sure. But I'm thinking silver glitter nail polish is going to do more for my morale this weekend than a clean apartment. AmIright?
As per usual I create three dream-scenarios and one outfit that's probably closest to the truth. Seeing as I'll be building sets on Monday I think you can guess what I'll be wearing...
When I moved in to my studio apartment I had a couple conflicting feelings about it. The first was utter shock; I had just started a new job and my world had been turned upside down. The second was this giggly weird freedom that made me feel like a little girl playing house rather than an adult paying her own rent. It was confusing, and I find that it still is some nights when I come home to read blogs or watch a movie by myself in MY Chicago apartment.
After moving in I stocked my little half-a-fridge and bought an off-brand, sub-par jar of salsa. I tried opening it and the lid wouldn't budge. I dug my trusty jar opener out of a moving box but the lid stayed put. I ran it under hot water, submerged it in my sink upside down, tried hitting the edge of the lid against my half-a-stove and even went at it with a can opener. For the past seven months I would peer in to the fridge, see that jar of salsa taunting me and give it the old college try. It's become this running joke with Mom: should I lure a guy under false pretenses back to my apartment just so he can open the jar of salsa for me? Or maybe it's my King Arthur moment, he who opens the salsa get the...sword?
The silly thing is I will go to the grocery store and looking at the salsa aisle only strengthens my resolve to march back to my apartment and open my own salsa. Recently the old fashioned way didn't work as per usual and I tried to get through the top with a wine corker almost cutting my fingers and breaking the corkscrew. "Am I really going to wait for someone to come along and open this damn jar of salsa?" I thought munching on unflavored taco chips.
This Cinco de Mayo I went grocery shopping with a firm purpose. I picked out my favorite jar (no off brands) plunked that baby in the cart and hoped for the best. Low and behold upon my triumphant return to the apartment the jar clicked open like a magical symphony of angels and was consumed with a considerable amount of swagger.
And that is the story that made me want to blog just a lil' bit.
Running and I have a love hate relationship. Which is to say that I love what running does for me but I hate, hate, HATE lacing up and doing it. Of course it's not unusual to love the results of something you don't want to do...giving up junk food or sitting down to write for instance. Any time I plan a run I make an excuse: "what if I lifted instead? what if I walk around the grocery store for an hour, does that count?" I'm sure it all counts for something, but not what I'm trying to accomplish.
A few days before leaving for Atlanta I woke up promising myself that after breakfast and some indulgent Pinterest-ing I would hit the trails. But upon rolling out of bed my mental block had other plans.
A thought occurred to me as I was staring down at my old, ripped up Asics. One of my best pieces of advice that always works: get dressed, walk out your front door. If you still don't feel like working out after you've gone through all the effort to prepare, then don't. I reasoned that even if I got out my front door and just took a walk down to Lake Shore my legs would recognize the familiar rhythm and know what to do. And they did.
For twenty minutes and I zipped up and down the sidewalk along with honking rush traffic and a homeless man that called me "pretty lady". Aw shucks! Of course he followed it up by asking if I was alone, to which I unapologetically about-faced and sprinted back to my apartment. Sweaty, panting, blissfully satisfied Now that it's starting to warm up around these parts picking up running might not be such a bad idea.
E and I kicked around the city drinking frozen Jack and Cokes and enjoying the general splendor of the weather and Final Four fans all flooding the city at once. We ran the Color Run, went to a Braves game, completed a scavenger hunt through a cemetery (despite my total lack of word search skills), saw some impressive aquatics at the Georgia Aquarium, ate a lot of ice cream and played Settlers of Catan. It's okay to admit that you're jealous because I continue to be bummed that I can't go back and do it all over again this weekend.
